


the unnecessary distraction

by Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Assassination Plot(s), Complete, F/M, One Shot, Pining, Slow Burn, ages are fuzzy in space so everyone is an adult here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:40:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22777282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome/pseuds/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome
Summary: The Mandalorian takes a job from a senator. Temptation abounds, as he is confronted with the limitations of the Way.
Relationships: the mandalorian/leia organa
Comments: 12
Kudos: 43





	the unnecessary distraction

**Author's Note:**

> A rarest of rare pairs, to be sure. Set during a time around Rogue One, though certainly fuzzy enough that it could be later, in a different sort of AU.  
> Comments are welcome and encouraged

A Senator speaks to the Mandalorian with a tone that suggests he both respects him, and somehow, sees the person beneath the helmet. It is unsettling, to be seen while still hiding, to be known for human when one’s work requires the coldness of the void.

“That is the mission,” Senator Bail Organa says, “and the pay, should you choose to accept it.”

“Sir,” the Mandalorian says, his voice as emotionless as the metal helmet he wears. “Understand that I am a-”

“Soldier for hire, are you not?” the Senator raises an eyebrow. His reputation precedes him and the negotiations have proven him to be no fool.

“If you wish to put it that way.”

“All I ask,” the senator says, “is that you keep my daughter safe on this mission. She is rather… impulsive.”

“Is she a child?”

The Senator laughs. “I suppose she will always be one to me. But no, she is eighteen, an adult, and a politician.”

She is scarcely much older than the Mandalorian himself. He notes this with cool disregard, saying nothing to the senator. No one needs to know his age, his name, anything. He is simply the Mandalorian and that is enough.

“But she will always be my little girl. A father’s love, you understand?”

The Mandalorian does not. He knows the loss of family, the finding of the Way. He knows the life of a foundling, raised within the bonds of the Way. But he is not clear on that word. _Love._ What he knows is duty, the code and the way.

“I will accept your mission.” The handsome price the senator offers will buy a great deal of food for the new foundlings recently brought to them. He thinks this, and fails to realize that in thinking this, he comes closer than ever to the quality the senator had spoken of.

* * *

The young woman he had been tasked with protecting, the Mandalorian soon understands, is as in need of protection as a sun is in need of fire. She is one who loves a challenge, as evidenced by the gleam in her eye as she darts from Sabacc table to table. She is intelligent, too, only winning enough to make a profit and never enough to draw attention to her.

Well, no. that was not true. The woman--the princess-- (she tells him to call her Leia but he finds he cannot)-- draws attention to her the way black holes draw ships to them. Others are powerless as they come within her orbit. They follow her, desperately, offering drinks, food, a dance, in soft, hesitant whispers as if one scoffing rebuttal from her would be enough to shatter them to space dust.

Some offer their hand in a dance, and she takes each one, granting them a song, letting them spin her around the marble floor. Her dress whirls around her like the soft foam at the crest of a wave, but he sees what those who dance with her do not. She is incapable of drowning. Their touch, their kisses to her cheek, their compliments do nothing for her. His sensors show that her heartbeat remains unchanged, even when a Grand Moff begs for her hand in marriage.

The Mandalorian is no expert in such things, but he is rather sure such an honor should be enough to send a girl’s heart rate racing with all the potential of riches and of joy.

Instead, the princess remains calm. She is unphased by all that occurs around her and instead, it seems, she often finds his gaze, from across the crowded floor, as if she can sense that, eve beneath his helmet, he is watching her with admittedly more than professional interest.

She is lovely. He knows that. Both objectively, with her lithe frame, her delicate features and her expressive eyes. And subjectively, with her charm and wicked wit. Even the ship ride here had been filled with her surprisingly intelligent banter, as she sought to learn about him and his way. She did not pry, not even when he told her that the helmet he wears is his face.

She had simply smiled at him and said, “I am no stranger to masks, Mandalorian. I find that true character can be seen, no matter what it hides behind.”

Now, he understands more of what she means. No one here is honest. No one here, in this assembly of the elite, tells the truth or acts as they truly are. Here, on this decadent moon, the highest of the Emperor’s chosen mingle with merchants who once sold to both sides, and to royalty who ruled regardless of who was in charge of the galaxy.

He hates them all, every one. Except for Leia. Who, he knows, does not belong here. If she did, she would not have required a guard with his skills. If she had belonged here, among these vapid and greedy fools, her father would not love her as he did.

A father’s love was a strong thing, the Way taught, and worthy of being honored.

“Why am I here?” he asks her, when there is a quiet moment at the gala.

She looks up at him, the jewels in her ears swinging forward, capturing and distorting the lights around them. Her entire outfit is encrusted with jewels. Her neck and wrists are draped with strands of beads and cut gems and yet none seem as brilliant as the gleam in her eyes. “To protect me, of course.”

“You do not appear to be in danger.” Rather, it seems others are in danger from her. They think, he knows, that they can possess her. That they might be able to carry her to their bed, or win her hand in a union that will benefit them financially.

It is the former he is here to stop, perhaps, but it is the later that Leia seems to have received. Part of him wishes someone would start that potential brawl. It would do him well to fight, to move through these strange emotions stirring in his heart. He has no words to describe why his hands clenched into fists when a young merchant had run his fingers down the small of Leia’s back in the dance.

“We are on the moon of Apoliana. Here, it is forbidden for a woman to draw a weapon.” Something in her voice shifts. It loses the haughty tone, turns softer. Warmer. He did not realize others could wear armor, not made of Beskar, but of deception.

“And are you skilled in weapons?”

“What do you think?” She looks up at him. Suddenly, he sees her more clearly. Notices that the dress of pale blue she wears grazes over muscles, a frame of a warrior. Then, she slides her hand in his, and squeezes, just once.

The touch makes him startle. For a moment, he wishes to fight, to recoil. Then, he feels the calluses on her skin through his thin gloves, calluses that match his own, made from repetition with a blaster, with dedication to the careful art of battle. Only now does he see how the cut of her dress, which drops so low and shows so much of her back, is still loose enough around her thighs to hide a blaster holster.

Only now does he realize she danced with those others, not to be entertained, but to find her mark.

“I think,” he pauses, finding his words more difficult to choose than usual. “You are the most dangerous woman in this room.”

She laughs, throwing her head back, revealing her delicate neck, her smooth skin. The motion makes the neckline of her silken gown flutter, offering the faintest glimpse of…

The Mandalorian averts his gaze.

“Come,” she tells him, taking his hand once more. “The holo-opera is about to begin.”

Leia leads him into a large amphitheater, where many are gathered, waiting for the central curtains to lift. Before he took this mission, he researched this moon’s traditions. He knows that what he will see is all artificial trickery, fragments of light bent by mirrors and motors.

But that doesn’t stop his breath from catching when the show begins and the universe itself appears in front of him, perfectly choreographed to a dazzling, distant orchestra’s music.

Leia smiles.

He thinks, as he watches her watch the swirling lights around them, that he may have begun to understand what others have told him. To understand that one could feel so much more than just duty, honor, need.

That one could feel a _hunger_ that could not be sated with food.

The princess inclines her head at him. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

The glitter from the exploding chemical reactions sparkle behind her, illuminating her with a faint glow. But that glow is nothing in comparison to the gleam of her eyes and the brilliance of her smile.

He knows that smile, has smiled it himself, safely underneath the helmet. It is the smile of a hunter, who has caught the trail of their prey.

The opera’s music fills the room, as water fills a glass, except for him. He has already recalibrated his helmet’s filters, ensuring the music is blocked out, so that he is able to remain on alert. Leia, too, he notices is not listening to the music, though she must use only the force of her will to block out the distractions.

She is on edge, her muscles tensed. Waiting, he thinks, for something to go wrong. For an attack. But from what?

_One is both hunter and prey._

His answer is provided a moment later. There’s a shuddering gasp, somewhere to his left. Without turning his head, he uses the helmet’s abilities to see in his blind spot. The Grand Moff that Leia had danced with earlier in the night has collapsed, clutching his chest.

The Grand Moff had chosen to sit alone, to better enjoy the show.

But, the Mandalorian sees now that ensures the Grand Moff will die alone, as well.

His last breaths are muffled by the vibro-brass and humming electro-strings of the orchestra. The glittering mist that so entrances the guests also hides the Grand Moff from view.

Leia lifts her free hand to check a small bracelet on her wrist. The Mandalorian had thought her jewelry extraneous, unnecessary to any sort of outfit. Now, he notices that the bracelet’s third bead tracks a heart rate, dropping slower, slower, slower.

The princess smiles.

The hunt must have concluded, for her.

Realization hits him, followed by grudging admiration. He waits, until the midpoint of the show, to ask her, “are you ready to depart?”

“Quite,” she replies, cooly. But he does not miss the tremor in her hand as she squeezes his fingers. How strange, he thinks, to be relied on for comfort. And stranger still, to find he wishes to provide such a thing. He pulls her to him, only for a moment, only long enough for her to take one deep breath, as if breathing in the air they share will be enough to calm her. His fingers trail down the smooth skin of her back by accident.

She does not pull away.

He does not move.

"We should go," the princess says.

He finds that now he is the one whose heart is racing.

* * *

Once aboard the ship, they take off, without speaking. Her heartbeat, captured by the monitors in his helmet, tells him everything he needs to know. That she is scared. Thrilled. Anxious and yet, hopeful. She is not practiced yet in this hunt, though she is clearly skilled.

EVentually, though, as the ship nears the destination, he finally responds, not to anything she has said, but to the shadows he had seen in her face, as the weight of her actions had settled onto her shoulders. “it will get easier.”

“Hmm?” Leia looks up at him. She had settled into a chair, then busied herself with removing her various jewels, each one slid carefully back into a velveteen pouch.

He wonders how many of them are weapons.

“Nothing,” he replies, chiding himself for offering advice to one who is neither bounty hunter nor of the Way. He chides himself too, for the moments he had allowed himself to dream of offering the Way to her, of inviting her in, to belong to that which he belongs to.

Because as long as they are apart, as long as he walks the Way and she does not, she remains as impossible to touch as the glittering smoke of the holo-opera. And as long as he follows the Way, he cannot admit, not even to his own heart, how much he wishes he could touch her. That he thinks, even as he maneuvers the ship into the landing bay, of how warm her skin must be under that silk dress. Of how sweet her lips would taste, if he was allowed to taste them.

But that is a pleasure beyond any he may take. The Way has made it so. It is for their safety, that a kiss, the feel of skin on skin, the dance of two bodies together, is kept for those who have pledged lives to each other.

And yet, he cannot help but yearn for something he has never known before, in those small moments while Leia stretches, and the sleeve of her dress slides off her shoulder.

The mission is complete, the bill will soon be paid. But he cannot help feeling he is still on the hunt, still on edge, needing to complete the task. He cannot help remembering Leia’s smile, her callused hands.

His thoughts run away from him, bounding away from the careful control he has always had. Now, he is teased by dreams, by hints and suggestions, by pleasures he has heard of and perhaps accidently seen glimpses of, in his line of work.

But they all are pleasures he has lived without. Has never wanted, nor sought to understand. The Way has been all that he has needed.

And it will be enough for him, always.

“That’s kind of you to say,” Leia responds, finally, to the advice he had offered. “Thank you.”

His heart skitters, as if she has shot at him.

_One is both hunter and prey._

Surely, the code did not mean this hunt. This feral need to touch, to breath in the scent of another, to hold something as impossible as the light of dawn in his arms.

The code that governed his life could never mean for him to be prey to the charms of one so weak, so physically frail in her too-tight dress, her shoes made for dancing, not for running, her hair so long and so…

Oh.

She’d started to unbraid it,unraveling the plaits into soft waves of chestnut. The strands brushed over her bare shoulders, tumbled down the smooth skin of her back. He curses her blue dress, cursed how much it showed, (as much as he desired all that it still covered) and cursed the way his heart thudded against his ribs.

“May I kiss you?” she asks, suddenly, but with enough poise it is clear she has thought it before.

He blinks. His breath catches like a dart in his throat. “I…” He’d told her that his was the way. That the helmet was his face. What more could she not understand?

“I…”

Her fingers wrap around his. Didn’t she worry that his rough gloves would bruise her fragile skin? How could she go through the galaxy so exposed? So unsafe?

How could she trust him so completely?

“Yes,” he breathes out, closing his eyes in fear of what might come next.

Leia leans in, so close that her perfume threatened to drown him. She even smelled rich. Every bit of her was too luxurious, too indulgent, for his systems to begin to process.

She short-circuited him with her proximity. Her existence, here, in this moment, broke through every careful fence he has placed in his own thoughts, keeping dangerous dreams corralled away from his actions.

A moment like a punishment passes. Strangely, he hears the orchestra once more, though his sensors would insist the ship is silent.

His helmet remains on.

Leia’s lips press against the smooth metal.

The moment is like a star streak as a ship leaps into hyperspace. Impossible. Brilliant. Lasting an eternity and then only a second. He feels the warmth of her body through the thinness of his gloves, through the small space between glove and wrist gauntlet, through something deeper inside of him, that provides a thousand new imaginings for him. He breathes in, shutting off the filters of the helmet, allowing himself to drown, just for that moment, in all the richness she offers. She is made of flowers and yet, the trace of ozone from blaster fire, clings to her. That dress, as lovely as it is, has seen combat before. She has seen combat before, and she has won.

Much as she has won this skirmish, as well, surprising him beyond anything he could have expected. Honoring the Way while still offering him so much more, should he stray from the path. “There,” she smiles.

His heart returns to something like a normal pace, though his mind is still bursting with all the fires of a supernova.

“I’ll say goodbye now,” she adds, squeezing his hand once more. How could such a small touch make his entire conviction tremble? “But I will see you again.”

“Perhaps.” She is a rebel. He knows that now and knows their coffers do not have enough to often enlist his services. Perhaps she thinks she could recruit him, lead him to her own path. For a moment, he considers it, strange as it may be. Considers fighting, not for the Way, but for her, making her convictions his own. But that is not the Way. She, he thinks, would not want that either. She would want him to come as he is, to believe in the cause and not simply hunger for her approval as much as he does her kiss.

“I know it,” the princess replies. “I believe in you.”

Belief? In another person? No. That is foolish. “Believe in something larger than me,” he replies. “Believe in a cause. In a reason to fight.”

Leia’s lips press into a narrow line. Once more, he sees the fighter inside her, threatening to overwhelm the poised princess she pretends to be. He wonders if she sees him as pretending to be that which he is not. If his helmet, his armor, to her, is merely a barrier to the real him inside. Then, he thinks of how she had kissed his helmet, how she had found solace for that moment in his armored embrace, and knows that no, if she cares at all for him, she cares for him as he is, as the Mandalorian he is.

She asks him, then, “Why?”

“Because life is hard,” he replies. The princess does not know that yet, which is perhaps why she was able to kiss him. “And only the Way can bring peace.”

“I didn’t take you for a pacifist.”

He snorts with dry amusement. “I’m not.”

“And I’m not some foolish girl without… without goals,” she retorts, color high on her cheeks. Which is strange, as he has never said that. Her heartbeat is racing now. Perhaps she, too, had used the silence of the journey to ponder her own thoughts. “I will change the galaxy. You just… you just watch.”

He shakes his head. “I cannot see how one person can.” Even if that one person is powerful, well-connected, and a skilled assassin.

“Well, I will.”

He likes that passion in her. Likes it, but knows that this moment has drawn out too long already. It is time to leave. The song has come to an end, as has this dalliance. As much as it is tempting to imagine her in armor, imagine her in battle at his side, and even, perhaps, in his bed, it is still not the Way. Not for her, nor for him. Theirs are different paths which must be followed. “And Leia?”

“Yes?” She looks up at him with wide eyes. He cannot help but hope she never loses that brightness in her expression, no matter where her own hunt will lead her.

“Some advice.” He shoulders his blaster, then adjusts the pistol in his belt. The Way is there for him, as it always is, giving him a path forward, away from this unnecessary distraction.

“Oh?” She smiles, which merely makes him shake his head. Impulsive, her father had said. That is true. But tempting, too, which he wished he had known, before he had taken the mission. 

Underneath his own helmet, he smiles as well, before saying, “you should start liking nice men.”


End file.
